Final Goodbyes
by InfinityStar
Summary: I want to meet her, she demanded. Now what was he going to do?
1. A Tentative Request

**A/N: I'm not sure what to call this. It's not a missing scene because it's more than just a scene, and it's not a post ep...it's a 'during' ep. So call it what you will. Now my muse, being what it is, has been demanding that I start this and one other story I started rolling. Over the next week or so, I plan to finish at least two of the stories I have going, so we're close enough to get these next two up and at 'em. No, I'm not sure where this will go, but at least it's going...somewhere...**

* * *

Mark Ford Brady made her skin crawl, but she was not surprised that her partner could tolerate him. He had a tolerance for the scum of society that she had never understood and likely never would. Maybe it was because he could have become one of them himself that he was sympathetic toward them, that he understood them. Like the old adage said: _There, but for the grace of God, go I._ She had no idea how close to the truth she really was.

* * *

Looking up from her computer screen yet again, she watched him slowly leaf through the scrapbook, eyes examining each woman in her turn. She could not hazard a guess as to what was going through his mind; she didn't even want to try. But she didn't like the nervous shifting he'd been doing all afternoon. Something was troubling him. She could ask, but ninety percent of the time, unless he was ready to talk, that was a waste of breath. When he was ready to get whatever it was off his chest, he'd tell her. He usually did. She returned her attention to the computer. 

She looked up again when he got to his feet and gathered his things together. "Uh, Eames, I need...to get some things done...some...reading." She didn't understand his nervousness, but she waited patiently. There was more. He rubbed the back of his neck and shifted. "Uh, would you...I mean do you mind...uh...Eames, would you...mind...coming with me tomorrow...to, uh, you know...to meet my mother?"

Her eyes widened in surprise. Meet his mother? Okay, so his mother had told him she wanted to meet her. She never thought he'd actually follow through with her request. "Uh, sure, Bobby. I'd like that."

Okay, that was an understatement. She had always wanted to meet the woman responsible for this man. He looked relieved. "Th-thank you, Eames. Uh, is 11 o'clock too early for you? I know it's Saturday."

She knew he was going out to see her as often as he possibly could. She gathered from the snippets of conversation she'd heard that the woman had little time left, and her heart went out to her partner. "Eleven is fine. I'll meet you at your place."

He gave her a small smile of gratitude and relief before tucking his worn leather binder under his arm and leaving.

* * *

Eames studied her reflection intently, then wondered why she was putting so much effort into preparing to meet a woman she did not know and never would. So why did it matter so much? Because Bobby mattered so much to her. It was as simple as that. 

She turned to the side. Initially she had chosen a black outfit, but considering the circumstances, she changed her mind. Instead, she chose dark blue slacks and a sleeveless burgundy shirt with a collar along with a nice pair of black boots with a moderate heel. She was nervous, but at least she'd be comfortable in this outfit.

She was very careful not to apply too much makeup although she probably spent too much time on her hair. One good breeze and there would be no telling she'd done anything with it at all. Oh, well...maybe Bobby would notice and at least appreciate her effort. But she wasn't going to count on that. Lately, she had to wonder if he remembered she existed at all sometimes. No, he wouldn't notice...and she would do her best not to feel disappointed. With a heavy sigh, she placed her brush on the dresser. Ten minutes later, she was on her way to her partner's apartment.

* * *

He was surprised he had not yet worn a path in his living room carpet. He hadn't slept much, if at all, the night before, so he'd taken the opportunity to read, but it didn't get his mind off anything. He was probably more anxious than he should be about bringing Eames to meet his mother, but he couldn't help it. His mother and his partner were the two most important women in his life. There were only two outcomes he could foresee. This would be a success or a catastrophe, nothing in between. He couldn't begin to imagine what his mother would think of Eames. God, this was such a bad idea...but he was committed. _Dammit_. 

He sat down on the couch and buried his face in his hands. Why was he so nervous about this meeting? It wasn't like his mother had any say over who he chose to make part of his life. He had never sought her approval of his chosen companions. Companion...what the hell? She wasn't his girlfriend, regardless of what his mother thought. And yet...she was closer than one. He had never slept with her, but he was more intimate with her than he had ever been with anyone. Eames understood...him. No one had ever understood him before. She knew him, understood him and accepted him. Period. No questions asked. If she ever chose to leave...what would he do without her? Life without Eames...just was not a life he wanted to live. He could, he _would_, live without his mother. It was going to be difficult to let her go, to say good-bye...but it was always something he knew he would have to do some day. But saying good-bye to Eames...that was something he could never face. _Never_...

* * *

He woke to the doorbell, disoriented and confused. Hauling himself to his feet, annoyed that he had fallen asleep, he made his way to the door and opened it. His eyes strayed over her and he was touched. "Y-you look..." His sleep-weary mind searched for the right word, but couldn't find it, so he had to settle for the only word that would come to him. "You look beautiful." 

She felt a flush creep up into her cheeks. Beautiful? She never expected _that_. He stepped back out of the way to allow her into the living room. "Um...I...I'll be right with you..."

"You did say eleven, didn't you?"

"Yeah...sorry I'm not ready. I, um...I fell asleep..."

"Don't apologize for sleeping. You need it. I'm sorry I woke you."

He shook his head. "It's not a bad thing."

"You need sleep, Bobby. You're walking a thin line here."

"I'm all right, Eames. I'll be right out."

She swallowed her argument. He was a big boy; he could take care of himself, make his own decisions, whether she approved or not. He was running himself into the ground and she hated to see it...but there was nothing she could do for him. She sat on the couch and looked at the books that cluttered his normally immaculate coffee table. _Serial Killer: Portrait of a Psychopath. Making Sense of Psychopathy. Pretty Maids All in A Row: A Journey Through the Mind of A Serial Rapist. _

She frowned. He was getting too far into this. Brady was due to die next week. Why was Bobby struggling to understand him? Would that help them identify the women in that scrapbook? Would it explain the game Brady was playing with them? Why was it so important to him to understand every monster who wanted to play games with him?

She looked up as he came back into the living room, dressed smartly in his dark blue suit. She always loved the way he looked in that suit. It was cut just right for him, and the color suited him well. The diagonally striped blue tie he usually wore with it was just the right touch. Now if only he didn't look so...worn down.

She dropped the book she held back onto the table and stepped up to him, fingering the silk tie with a smile. "Nice," she said.

"There's something I ought to tell you," he said softly, violating his own rules by bringing his hands up to rest on her waist.

"What's that?"

"I told you Frank was talking you up to Mom. They, uh, they both think...you're my girlfriend. I tried to tell them the truth...but...Mom...won't listen. She just wants it to be true. And Frank simply doesn't believe me. I, uh, I'm sorry to put you in...this kind of...uh, situation. I really am."

She was very surprised that he let them get away with that supposition. But the thought of it made her smile. "It's okay. Will it hurt anyone to let your mother think that?"

He stared at her, as if he hadn't understood a word she said. How fortunate was he to have a friend willing to play such a role, so a dying woman could rest in peace, thinking her son was happy? She remained silent, watching the turmoil in his eyes. "It's not that complicated, Bobby. And I don't mind. Let them think what they want. Like everyone else in the world, it doesn't matter what they think. And if it will help your mother die more peacefully...well...it's a small price to pay. She's had a life of turmoil, Bobby. Let her die not quite so worried about you. Let her know you have someone to take care of you, because you do. That part is true. Come on. Let's get going."

He dropped his hands away from her waist and hesitated another moment before he followed her from the apartment. No, that definitely was not a lie. He did have someone to take care of him, to watch out for him...if he let her.


	2. The Most Important People in His Life

Eames was uncertain about a great many things on the ride out to Carmel Ridge. First and foremost, she was questioning her decision to let her partner drive. Her knuckles were white as she clenched the between-seats console and the door, watching him dart haphazardly through traffic. She'd once told him he drove like a fighter pilot. He was reinforcing that image in her mind right now.

Goren glanced at his partner from time to time, and the butterflies in his gut graduated to full fledged bird-of-prey. He couldn't remember ever feeling this nervous, and her uptight frown did not encourage him in any way. This was such a bad idea and he had no clue whatever possessed him to even consider it, much less put it into action. God, he was going to be sick.

When he pulled into a space in the parking lot at Carmel Ridge, Eames breathed a sigh and had to consciously force herself not to fall out of the car and kiss the ground in relief. Goren heard the sigh and misread it. "W-we don't have to do this, Eames."

"Nonsense. I'm glad we're here."

"Really?"

She gave him a warm smile and answered in all sincerity, "Yes, Bobby. Really."

She held out her hand to him. He studied it for a moment, until she said, "It's not dangerous...unless you don't take it..."

He looked up at her, meeting her eyes. He held her gaze as he let his fingers gently wrap around hers. Her thumb lightly stroked his knuckle and his eyes slid closed. In his mind, he saw her, sitting across from him in the diner they'd stopped at for lunch, stealing a french fry from his plate and laughing as she dragged it through the ketchup on hers. He was silently praying this afternoon wouldn't have too much of a negative impact on their friendship. They had been through a lot, especially over the last year, and he did not want to jeopardize the progress they'd made toward restoring their damaged relationship.

She watched him close his eyes and realized she had no idea what he was thinking. That made her uncertain, and she wanted to reach out to him, to reassure him, but she had no idea how to do that. On impulse, she leaned closer and pressed her lips against his temple. She felt him tremble and she squeezed his hand.

When her lips pressed into his temple, he could not control the tremor that coursed through his body. He didn't know what to make of the gesture and a thousand emotions coursed through him, resisting classification. Her grip on his hand tightened and he managed, "We-we'd better...get going, Eames."

She withdrew and gave his hand another squeeze, getting out of the car. He rested his hands on the steering wheel for a moment before he slid out from behind the wheel and locked up. She met him by the back bumper and looked at him. "It's going to be all right, Bobby." She slipped her hand into his and squeezed. "Come on, now. I'm ready to meet your mother."

"I hope so, Eames. I really do." _...because I certainly am not..._

As they headed toward the building, she did not release his hand, and he felt reassured. She was walking into this willingly. He just hoped she would not regret it.

* * *

He hesitated before the door he had walked through hundreds of times, uncertain. There was no turning back once he opened this door and crossed the threshold. He felt pressure on his hand as she squeezed it, then released her hold, hoping to set him further at ease. Hoping his brother was not in the room, he knocked and pushed the door open. 

Frances was seated on the love seat in front of the window, studying a framed photograph. Looking up, she set the picture aside and frowned at the strange woman who walked into her room. She didn't recognize her and she wondered what new and interesting torture those damn doctors had in store for her today--even here she wasn't completely safe from their clutches...until her son came through the doorway after her. A bright smile lit her face. "Bobby!"

He stepped past Eames and leaned down to give his mother a kiss. She turned her scrutiny toward Eames as he stepped out of her way. "So this is her?"

"Alex, Mom. Her name is Alex, and yes, this is her."

Eames smiled pleasantly. "It's nice to meet you, Mrs. Goren."

Frances studied her. "Come over here and sit by me," she said.

Eames did as she asked, meeting Goren's eyes as she walked toward him then lowered herself onto the couch beside his dying mother.

Frances looked past Eames at her son. "Go for a walk, Bobby."

"Ex-excuse me?"

"You heard me. Go for a walk. Alex and I want to talk."

Surprised, he looked at his partner, eyes offering a silent apology. Her expression told him it was all right. Her hand wandered to his, fingers brushing the back of it. The look in his eyes changed and she thought she saw remorse, but she had to be wrong. He stepped away from her and moved to his mother, leaning down to kiss her cheek. "Okay, Mom, I'll go for a walk."

As he turned toward the door, he met Eames' eyes for another dose of reassurance. "Bobby," his mother's voice scolded as he turned away to leave the room. "Don't be shy."

"Sh-shy?"

Her eyes darted toward Eames and she waited expectantly. A moment of panic followed the realization of his mother's expectation, and he sought out Eames' eyes once again. Understanding dwelled in their chestnut depths as he moved back around the table and leaned down to kiss her cheek. She expected a quick, embarrassed peck, but, as he did so often, he surprised her. Soft, warm lips pressed against her cheek and lingered for a long moment. His hand cupped her elbow, gently squeezed, and then he stepped away and left the room.

Frances regarded the exchange with quiet reserve. Eames turned toward her once Goren was gone and saw sharp eyes studying her with a familiar intensity. Bobby had not been exaggerating when he told her his mother was intense. "He's a good son," she started. "I suppose I have not appreciated that over the years. He gave up a lot to care for me." She sighed wistfully. "I have no grandchildren, Alex. And I would have loved to have seen my sons' children."

Eames didn't know what to say; she had no idea where this conversation was going. Frances went on. "Once I'm gone, he'll be free to put his time and effort properly into a relationship, a family." She took Alex's hand in hers. "He will have beautiful children."

Alex nodded slowly in agreement. "Yes. Yes, he will."

She reached out and placed a thin finger under Eames' chin, turning her head to study her profile. She slowly nodded and lowered her hand. Eames looked back at her as she said, "And so will you."

A light flush colored her cheeks as visions of childhood photos filled her head, her own features merging with her partner's to produce images of what their children might look like. She chased them away. What was wrong with her? _Fantasy, Alex. Never put effort into imagining something like that. It's too painful because it will never happen. He'll never let it.  
_

Frances' voice interrupted her introspection. "How long have you known Bobby?"

"About six years."

"That's a long time for him. Did he tell you about me, about my illness?"

"Yes, he did."

She looked surprised, nodding slowly. "Good. He can be very private. He protects me fiercely. I suppose that's why he never brought you to visit before. He's very sensitive to criticism."

From certain people, yes, he was. It occurred to Eames that sitting in this room were the two most important people in her partner's life. No one meant more to him than they did, and that probably had as much to do with the fact he had never brought them together as anything did. If his mother disapproved of her, it would have placed him in an intolerable situation. It was bad enough for him that she gave him grief about his career, and she imagined he heard about his single status on a regular basis, too. The last thing he needed was to hear grief about her. To him, it had never been worth the risk that his mother would not like her. Now, as her life was drawing to its end and she had asked to meet her, he was reluctantly conceding.

Eames looked directly at the older woman. "Bobby is very important to me, Mrs. Goren. We have been partners for six years, and I would risk my life for his. He would do the same for me. I need you to understand that I will take care of him. You do not have to worry about that. Whether he likes it or not, I will take care of him."

Frances smiled. "A strong woman...you are what I have always told him he needed...a woman not afraid to stand up to him when he needs it. My son can be very stubborn."

Eames returned her smile. "I know. But so can I."

"Before he comes back, there is one more thing I need to know." She studied the younger woman, who was watching her expectantly. She had an open, honest face, which was reassuring. She was a pretty woman, in an understated way...another point in her favor. Bobby didn't need a woman more interested in her appearance than she was in him. She was well-toned and she radiated good health...another plus, she took care of herself. She believed her when she said she would take care of him, too, when he needed it. She reached out and took Eames' hand, an uncharacteristically gentle gesture. Frances was a woman with a dominating personality. She had raised her sons with a firm hand and as much love and affection as her disease would allow. It had been a hard upbringing for them both, she knew. Bobby, however, had it harder than his brother. Bill Goren had not taken as much interest in his younger son, and the attention he gave him was overwhelmingly negative. Bobby never knew how she had protected him. Her hand tightened its grip as she chased away the negative memories. "I love my son, Alex. Do you?"

Eames rested her other hand over Frances' soft, thin one. The door opened as she answered, "Yes. I do."

"You do what?" Goren asked as he came in.

Eames smiled at him. "I do appreciate the fact that you brought me here today," she answered honestly.

Frances squeezed her hand again and released her grip. She reached for the picture she had been looking at when they arrived, holding it out for Eames to see. "Look at them, Alex," she said with pride. "Frank was nine and Bobby was six. Do you remember the time you fell in the river, Bobby?"

He nodded as he sat on the coffee table. "Yes, Mom. I remember."

"Frank got you out."

"Of course he did. He pushed me in and he felt responsible for getting me out."

Frances frowned. "I don't remember that."

"We never told you. Dad was home then and neither of us wanted a beating."

She studied her son. "And when you fell out of the tree and broke your arm?"

He nodded. "That was Frank, too."

"What about when you got hit by the car, when you were in high school?"

"No, that was Lewis. We were goofing off; it was an accident."

She shook a finger at him. "And you were drinking."

He smiled, his eyes warm and bright with amusement. "That's what teenage boys do, Mom," he said.

"And teenage girls," Eames added.

He raised an eyebrow at her, curious. "Why doesn't it surprise me that you caused trouble?"

She returned his smile. "I was hard on my parents," she said with a laugh. "I think I spent my entire junior year of high school sneaking out at night after I was grounded."

"You never did that, Bobby, did you?" Frances asked.

"Of course not, Ma."

Eames choked back a laugh. She knew that expression. He met her eyes, mischief sparkling bright in his. She touched his knee briefly, and he didn't look away until his mother spoke again.

"So, Alex...tell me about your family..."


	3. A Changing Order

Frances turned another page in the photo album and pointed at a picture. "Bobby was about five here, in kindergarten."

Eames smiled. "Nice black eye."

He wasn't certain how he felt about his mother taking a trip down her memory lane of his childhood, but it was a much more pleasant journey for her than it had been for him when he was living the events that somehow became those memories in her mind. He supposed it was a good thing that she remembered an altered reality, and he wasn't going to change it; he never did. He was also very good at creating new memories for her, continuing to paint a picture of his childhood that was a great deal more pleasant than the one he actually lived. His father had given him that black eye; she never knew and it was actually Lewis who had told him to let her think they'd been fighting. Neither of them had ever wanted to see her upset. "I got that on the playground. Lewis and I got into a little fight. He ended up with a bloody nose and I got a black eye. Of course, his bloody nose was gone on picture day."

Frances leaned toward Alex. "He was never afraid, this one. Scared me to death more than once. Always taking risks, barreling ahead full steam like a bull in a china shop."

Eames smiled as she leaned in to close the distance between them. "He hasn't changed," she said.

Frances laid an affectionate hand on his knee. "He never will, God willing."

Eames met his eyes. "I wouldn't have him any other way. Bobby makes my life exciting."

He held her gaze, filled with gratitude that she was giving his mother a reassurance he could never provide. Frances was settling into the idea that her son was not alone in the world. He had Alex, and he was happy to have her. Even more, Alex seemed happy to have him.

Frances closed the photo album and leaned back, looking from her son to the woman she thought was his girlfriend. "Have you discussed starting a family at all?"

Goren immediately got uncomfortable, but Eames remained relaxed as she smiled and answered, "Yes, we have, from time to time."

It wasn't a lie. They talked about many things with each other, including their mutual desire to have children. They had just never talked having children together. Eames doubted they ever would, and she found herself filled with resentment for a woman who did not yet exist in her partner's life, the woman who would eventually capture his restless heart and bear his children. She did not regret putting up a front for his dying mother, not one bit, but it was becoming painful for her, on an emotional level. That was something she had not planned on.

Finally, Goren decided enough was enough. He had imposed upon Alex's friendship too much. "We-we really need to get going, Mom. We have dinner plans."

Frances smiled at Alex. "Where is he taking you, dear?"

Without missing a beat, Eames smiled sweetly and answered, "To The Lookout, in Nassau County, overlooking South Oyster Bay."

Frances smiled with delight. "That's a very nice place. Who's choice was it?"

"Mine," she answered, looking at him.

His eyes were on her, and a soft smile graced his face. She returned the smile. Frances turned to him. "She has class, son."

"I know she does, Mom. I'm very lucky."

"Yes, you are. Don't let this one get away. You'd regret that for the rest of your life."

He nodded knowingly. "I know I would."

"All right, then, get going. You can't go to the Lookout dressed like that."

He gave her a kiss and said, "I'll talk to you tomorrow, Mom."

"If you're not busy, come to visit. Your brother will be here."

"We'll see what happens."

"If it will give me grandchildren, stay home."

He laughed to cover his embarrassment. "No grandchildren yet, Mom."

She almost pouted. "Think about it, Bobby. Seriously. You and Alex will have beautiful children."

"Get some rest, Mom. I love you."

Eames smiled at her. "Good-bye, Mrs. Goren."

"Come over here, Alex."

She walked to the tiny, frail woman and leaned down when she motioned to her. Frances gave her a hug. "You have his heart, dear. I can see that in his eyes when he looks at you. A mother knows these things. She knows when she's lost her boy. Take care of his heart; it's a fragile thing."

"I know it is. Don't worry about him. I've got him covered."

Frances kissed her cheek and whispered, "Thank you."

* * *

As they headed to the car, Goren looked at her. "The Lookout?" 

"I figured the least you could do is take me out to a nice dinner. After all, it was your suggestion."

"You've got me there."

She smiled. "I know."

When they got to the car, she held out her hand. "I'm driving back to the city, and out to Long Island."

He handed over the keys without an argument. He was oddly quiet all the way back to the city, and she had no idea what to make of his silence. "Is something wrong?"

He didn't answer immediately, so she waited. Finally, he said, "I...I'm trying to find a way to apologize to you."

"Apologize? For what?"

"For my mother...her memories are, uh, the way she wanted my childhood to have been. She lives in her own fabricated reality in many ways. An-and all that talk of grandchildren..."

"Bobby, she thinks I'm your girlfriend, and that we're serious. It's just natural she'd say something like that."

"I-I think one of her biggest...disappointments...is not having grandchildren."

"I can understand that. I feel that way about having children."

"I...I wish there was something I could do..."

He trailed off and looked out the window, feeling terribly inadequate and not liking it at all. He had not expected an easy visit, although his mother had been good with Alex. She really seemed to like her. He shouldn't have worried about that. People naturally liked Eames...well, if they were on her good side, they did...

But good side or bad side, he had to admit—and it was a very difficult admission for him to make—he loved her just as she was.

* * *

Eames drove to her house in Rockaway and handed him the keys. "Go home and get ready, then come on back. I'll be ready by the time you get here." 

He gave her no argument. After what she'd done for him that afternoon, he would have given her the moon had it been his to give. So he drove home, showered, changed and drove back. If nothing else, the drive gave him time to think. Sometimes that was a good thing, mostly it was not. That evening, it just left him more confused than he'd been to start with. For all his brilliance as a profiler, Eames was one of the few people he could not read. Just when he thought he had something, he realized just how tenuous his understanding of her really was, and he didn't get why. It never once occurred to him that he could be tripping over his own emotions. He didn't even realize they were there.

He shifted restlessly as he waited for her to answer the door. He would have felt safe making a bet that she had lost the ability to surprise him, and he would have been wrong. When she opened the door, he stopped moving, thinking, breathing...

She stunned him and set his world on edge. Her hair was swept up and pinned to her head and she was wearing a green dress that went to mid-thigh. It was just the right color to set off her eyes. She wore heels that weren't any higher than those she sometimes wore to work, but they complemented her outfit well. He just stared at her; he couldn't help it. "Come on in," she said absently as she slid the back on the earring in her left ear and left his line of vision.

It took a moment for her words to register and another moment before he remembered how to move. He closed the door behind him as she called out from somewhere else in the house, "Two more minutes and I'll be ready to go."

He opened his mouth to answer, but no words would form so he closed it again and just waited. Five minutes later, they were on their way. He handed over the keys and settled into the passenger seat. When the scent of her perfume drifted across the car to where he was sitting, trying not to focus on her, he knew it was a lost cause and he just let his mind go where it wanted to. Inevitably, as it tended to do more and more often as time passed, its restless wanderings found a comfortable place thinking about her.

She looked over at him when he groaned. "Are you all right?"

He nodded. "I-I'm fine."

"You don't sound fine."

"I..." he sighed softly. "You look...great." _Great _was a weak understatement but his vocabulary was still in hiding.

She smiled, pleased. This was the fourth outfit she'd tried on, and she couldn't explain why it had taken her two hours to get dressed. This was Bobby, not some random date she needed to impress. She could have worn her bathrobe and bedroom slippers and he would have been fine with it. "Thanks," she answered.

They both became lost in their thoughts and neither said anything more as they headed for South Oyster Bay.

* * *

Just about anywhere else in the country, the cuisine at the Lookout would have been described as "surf 'n' turf," but the Long Island restaurant was too classy for such a designation. So it described its fare as "eclectic American." The lighting was subdued and most of the tables were for two. A candle was set in the center of each table and when they were shown to their places, the host took out a lighter and lit the candle. The burgundy menus were written on parchment and bound in leather. He helped her out of her jacket and draped it over the back of her chair, which he held for her as she sat down. Draping his own jacket over his chair, wondering why it felt so warm all of a sudden, he lowered himself into his chair, once again allowing his eyes to take in her appearance. His stomach did a flip when she met his eyes and smiled. What was wrong with him? He wouldn't act like this if she had nothing on...now where did _that _thought come from, and how did he get rid of the image it conjured in his head? _Trouble_... that word had no difficulty finding its way back from his lost vocabulary, and it was the best word he knew to describe his current situation. He was deep in trouble... 

When the waiter came to take their drink orders, she ordered a vodka martini and he ordered scotch, a double, straight up. Maybe that would calm his rattled nerves. He looked across the table at her, still taken by her but recovering to the point that he could at least manage putting more than two words together in a string that made sense. "Why did you choose this place?"

"Because I like it and the food is great. If I'm going to be your girlfriend for the day I'm going to take advantage of it. Are you complaining?"

"Not at all."

"Good."

Their drinks arrived and they placed their food orders. Grilled chicken for her and a steak, medium rare, for him. As the waiter walked off toward the kitchen, her eyes wandered around the restaurant, trying to keep her mind away from her dinner partner. It was just the same as she remembered it, even though she had not been there for more than twelve years. Joe had proposed to her here. He couldn't afford the restaurant on a rookie's pay; he'd saved for six months to take her there. But she was worth every penny, he'd told her. And she had never regretted saying yes to him. Although she should have, she did not expect the memories that came with being there again. Time did not heal every wound. _Well,_ she thought. _Time to make some new memories. _

She got to her feet and grabbed his hand. "Come on," she urged.

"Come on where?"

"Dance floor."

"D-dance floor?"

"Don't even try to squirm out of it. I know you can dance."

He let her lead him to the other side of the restaurant, where a large dance floor sprawled in front of a small stage, where an assortment of couples enjoyed dancing to the slow music played by five men in tuxedos who were surprisingly skilled. It took a special talent to put emotion into instrumental music, and the small band achieved it with apparent ease. The saxophone in particular was creating a mood that washed over them with its warmth and ambiance. The air was thick with powerful emotion, soothed by the sax's undercurrent of romantic calm. She turned into his arms and surrendered herself to his lead. He did not disappoint. He did know how to dance, and he loved it.

"I like your mother," she said, trying to find a path away from the one she was unconsciously starting down.

He was already gone, overwhelmed by too many things. Everything about her was assaulting his senses, and her soft voice was no different. He struggled again to speak coherently. "Sh-she liked you, too."

"You think so?"

He nodded. "I know she did."

His mind was scrambling for a way to tell her how amazing she looked, but he wasn't certain how well-received his compliments would be. He had no idea what she was thinking and he refused to hazard a guess. If he went stupid on her now, she would likely never forgive him. So he continued to search for the right thing to say.

"Tell me something," she said, still struggling with her thoughts. "What do you think Brady's up to?"

His mind tripped and crashed. Brady? Where the hell did that come from? She was trying to fill the emptiness between them with a safe topic, to steer them down the path of professionalism that they both hid along. It dawned on him that now that they were here, she was as uncertain as he was. But she had successfully freed his mind from its prison of confusion, and he saw her with a new clarity. Something had drastically changed inside him, and the right words came. "I don't want to talk about Brady," his words whispered past her ear as his breath, laced with the whiskey odor of his scotch and mingling with his aftershave, caressed her cheek. "I want to talk about you."


	4. Irrational Fears

_I want to talk about you_. What could he possibly mean by that? She turned her head, pulling back just enough to see his face. She was unable to read his expression, but his eyes were warm and welcoming. She continued holding his gaze as he led her around the dance floor with confidence. Pressing her fingers more firmly against his shirt, she caressed his side. She felt his muscles bunch beneath her fingers as his eyes widened slightly and he faltered for half a step. He recovered quickly and his eyes searched hers, looking for some explanation for the caress. She offered none. He would have to take it for whatever he thought it was because she wasn't certain herself. She did it because it felt right. She expected him to end the dance when the song ended, but he surprised her, drawing her closer to him as the next piece started. When she offered no resistance, she could feel his muscles begin to relax. His embrace became more natural. On another impulse, she rested her head against his chest. His arms tightened, allowing her to rest comfortably against his body, and they moved as one. When his lips pressed against her head, she felt a tremor course through her.

"Are you cold?" he whispered.

She drew in a deep breath, relishing the scent of him, and shook her head. Her denial puzzled him. He knew he'd felt her tremble...what could possibly have caused it if she wasn't cold? When she moved her body against his, he lost his train of thought, and it didn't come back. She turned her head to look up at him again, eyes bright, lips parted just a little, and he was irresistibly drawn to her. Closing the distance between them, he brushed his lips over hers, gauging her response. When she didn't withdraw, he did it again, lingering longer this time. He was the one to withdraw, suddenly realizing that he wasn't kissing some random date. This was his partner. "Uh...w-we'd better get back...our dinner...uh...it'll get cold."

She nodded, allowing him to retreat. It was a very familiar song and dance. She followed him back to the table, trying to read him but not succeeding. Their meals were waiting and they ate for awhile in silence. Finally, he spoke, halting and tentative. "Uh...Eames...I-I am sorry. My mother...sh-she really pushed...that whole girlfriend thing. I...I appreciate what you did...for her. And I got...carried away...back there. I'm sorry...It won't happen again."

He was focused on his plate. She understood now. Bobby and guilt were old friends. They grew up together in a home that bred insecurity. "She's worried about you," she said gently. "She just wants to know that you're happy, that she's not leaving you alone. You're her son."

His head dipped lower and she couldn't see his face. But both fists were balled tight on the table. "Bobby?"

He waved her off, struggling with himself to keep control. He concentrated on the activity around them, the sounds of the other diners, the hustle and bustle of the wait staff, the music...and that was his undoing.

_You know our love was meant to be  
The kind of love that lasts forever  
And I need you here with me  
From tonight until the end of time _

_You should know, everywhere I go  
You're always on my mind,  
in my heart In my soul _

_You're the meaning in my life  
You're the inspiration  
You bring feeling to my life  
You're the inspiration  
Wanna have you near me  
I wanna have you hear me sayin'  
No one needs you more than I need you _

_And I know, yes I know that it's plain to see  
We're so in love when we're together  
And I know that I need you here with me  
From tonight until the end of time _

_You should know, everywhere I go  
You're always on my mind,  
in my heart In my soul _

_You're the meaning in my life  
You're the inspiration  
You bring feeling to my life  
You're the inspiration  
Wanna have you near me  
I wanna have you hear me sayin'  
No one needs you more than I need you _

"Excuse me, Eames," he muttered, getting up from the table and walking quickly away, leaving her baffled and concerned. She watched him step out onto one of the balconies that overlooked the Sound. Well, she was not going to let him get away with this.

She motioned to their waitress. "We're not done with our meal yet, so please don't clear the table. We'll just be out on one of the balconies."

The girl smiled. "That's fine. Enjoy."

Eames gave her another smile. _Yeah, right._ She never enjoyed taking him to task for his insecurities. She got up and headed for the door he'd gone through.

He leaned on the railing and buried his face in his hands. The gentle breeze off the ocean and the sound of the surf breaking on the coastline helped calm him and he grasped desperately for a measure of control. _She just wants to know that you're happy, that she's not leaving you alone_. The truth of the matter was that she had left him alone, years ago, and she'd been slipping beyond his reach ever since. Once she'd started her descent from reality, there was no getting her back. It started when he was seven, almost forty years ago, and he still had not adjusted to losing her. Now it was looming ahead of him like a huge obstacle that he had to surmount or it would crush the life out of him. He heard the door behind him open and close, and he sensed her beside him, but he didn't react. His life was heading toward a very deep low and he wasn't sure he wanted her to see it. When he hit rock bottom he was going to hit it hard.

She rested her arms on the railing and looked out into the darkness. The quarter moon shed little light on the sea, but the restaurant lights danced on the gently breaking waves. The sea air was fresh and salty. But somehow she doubted he noticed any of it. He looked utterly miserable. She reached out a tentative hand and laid it gently on his shoulder. Again his muscles tensed at her touch, but when she didn't move her hand, his tension eased. She slid her hand along his shoulder and gently fingered the hair at the nape of his neck. He dropped his head a little lower, interlacing his fingers behind his head. His breathing slowed and he seemed to relax. She leaned over and kissed his temple. "It's okay," she whispered. "Everything is going to be okay. We'll get through this."

He turned his head slowly to look at her. "We?"

She met his eyes. "Yes. We. Do you think for a second I would let you face this alone? You're not alone. Everything you have faced by yourself in the last six years has been by your choice, Bobby. All it ever took was a phone call."

She felt the tremor that coursed through him and she leaned closer, resting her head against his shoulder as she watched the lights on the dancing waves. He tightened his hands against the back of his head, still struggling against emotions he was losing his grip on. "Eames? Why did you do it?"

"Do what?"

"What you did today, with my mom? Why did you pretend to be something you're not?"

"Because it was important to you. Because it will make it easier for her to finally let go. She's suffered enough, Bobby. It didn't take a great deal of effort for me to relieve her mind of one last worry."

"But...how do you know...I-I don't even know...that she was worried about it."

"She's your mother. Trust me, she worries about you. I know she can be hard on you, but I also know she loves you. She wants the best for you. And she doesn't need to die thinking you're alone in the world." She paused for a moment. "You're not, you know. I did not lie to her. Maybe I'm not your girlfriend, but I care about you, and as long as I'm around, you'll never be alone in the world."

He was silent. Slowly, he loosened his hands and straightened up. She pulled back from him, fully expecting him to retreat into his shell. "Let's finish eating, Bobby, and I'll take you home."

She turned to head back into the restaurant only to be stopped by a gentle hand on her shoulder. She could feel him, looming behind her. His cheek pressed lightly against the side of her head, and she could smell the whiskey on his breath as it filtered by her face. "Thank you, Alex, but that's not something I can ask you to do. I know you're there, and you are very important in my life. I have no one else. But there is no way I could ever ask you to take the burden of being closer to me than you already are. Believe me when I tell you it's not a burden you want to carry. But thank you...for being willing."

He placed a tender kiss on her temple and guided her back into the restaurant before she could form a reply.

* * *

**A/N: You're the Inspiration is by Chicago. Keep in mind--Bobby is so reluctant to let anyone get close to him. If Alex really wants to fill that role in his life, she's going to have to work to get him to let her in...**


	5. Reflections

**A/N: This chapter is brief, but the hard part is coming. Hang in there :-)**

* * *

Eames lay in her bed, arms beneath her head, staring at the ceiling. _T__here is no way I could ever ask you to take the burden of being closer to me than you already are. Believe me when I tell you it's not a burden you want to carry. But thank you...for being willing. _

Why did he have to be so difficult? Why did she let him get to her like he did? Right now, her gut was churning with worry for him, but there was nothing she could do because he would not let her. He was facing the most difficult time of his life, and by his own choice, he was facing it alone. She wanted to wash her hands of it, of him, and just let him go. She wanted to step away, to let him bear the burden of his decision without her. But she couldn't. Her life would be so much easier if her difficult partner were not part of it. Easier, maybe, but vacant and boring. As frustrated as she was at him, she loved being his partner, and she just wanted to be his friend, but he was pushing her away.

In her mind's eye, she could see his smile. With her mind's ear, she could hear his laugh. Both had been conspicuously absent lately, and she missed them. Recalling the gentle kiss he had given her, she could not suppress a flutter deep in her gut. And then she heard his mother's voice. _You have his heart, dear. I can see that in his eyes when he looks at you. A mother knows these things. She knows when she's lost her boy. Take care of his heart; it's a fragile thing._

_A fragile thing..._ Yes, it was--so full of courage and the strength of his convictions, and yet so easily bruised. The same heart that could lure in a perp with ruthless efficiency could also empathize with the most heinous of them. And yet he protected it selfishly by shutting out everyone who tried to get close to him, even her.

_That's not something I can ask you to do._ He was not going to let her in. He was protecting an already damaged heart, a wounded soul that continually caused him pain. There was no way he was going to open himself up to any more pain than his life already contained. He never stopped to consider that, perhaps, there could be a way to heal the hurt. Letting someone past his defenses did not always have to lead to pain. But she could not think of any way to assure him of that. She knew of no way to convince him that she never meant to hurt him, that any pain their relationship had experienced had been largely of his own making. How could she let him know that she wanted him to let her in, not to use his pain against him, but to ease the burden of a tragic life?

She had tried to persuade him to come to her house, to unwind and talk about what had happened, but he had adamantly refused and asked that she simply take him home. He'd shut down on her before the meal was even done and she got no more from him. He was the most frustrating man she knew! But he was gentle and kind, mostly slow to anger, fiercely protective of those he cared about...of his mother...of her...

He did care about her. As she thought back over the last six years, she knew with certainty that he cared. And he had to know she cared about him, too. Why else would she have stayed? What other reason could she possibly have for pushing him to let her in? She was not trying to invade his privacy. She was trying to help him manage the most difficult time of his life...if only he would let her.

She fell asleep thinking about him, and her dreams were memories of their partnership, of their friendship. When she woke the next morning, her eyes were moist with unshed tears and her heart ached for his pain. How could she help him when he didn't want any help from anyone? There had to be a way...

* * *

The next two weeks were difficult as she watched him skitter closer and closer to the edge of his control. She could tell he wasn't sleeping and she doubted he was eating, although she was usually successful in getting him to eat something for lunch. His emotions were raw and his nerves were frayed. Snapping at Ross nearly got him thrown off the case, and she gave in to his request for her to trust him. She did trust him, more than he obviously realized. The Brady case had taken a toll on him, the stress of dealing with a captain who didn't trust him had pushed him even closer to the edge, and he continued to withdraw from her, refusing to let her take the final step into his heart. It was a step she was willing to take, but not one he was willing to let her make. 

Every time she reached out to him, he seemed to withdraw further, and she wasn't certain exactly what it was that was driving him away. For every step closer she took, he seemed to back two steps away. Whenever she reached out to him, he rejected her offer of help, withdrawing even further into a titanium shell. She no longer had any clue how to reach him, but she was not about to give up trying. Bobby knew abandonment well, but he had no idea how to handle loyalty. Well, she was going to teach her genius partner a very real lesson in life, love and loyalty, and, dammit, he was going to learn it!


	6. Sacred Trust

There was nothing left to do with the Brady case. The man was going to die on schedule, which was a huge relief to Eames. _Slimy bastard,_ she thought bitterly. He had caused her partner more than enough grief over the past few weeks. Ever since Bobby returned from his solo visit to the prison, she had second guessed her decision to trust him and let him go alone. He had been sullen and withdrawn, even more than usual. She got the feeling something had happened, but all of her attempts to talk with him had been met with silence, dismissal or avoidance. He wasn't trying to be difficult; it was something that came naturally to him. The same man who would use any aspect of his rocky life to connect with a suspect on the way to a confession would clam up tight with those closest to him. Years ago, she had learned more about him from his 'tit for tat' game with Nicole Wallace than she'd learned directly from him. Six years as his partner, and he still closed himself off from her.

After her kidnapping, when she was released from the hospital, he had taken her home. She did her best to hide her apprehension at being left there alone, but it was impossible to hide from Bobby Goren. The man could read her like a open book which was simultaneously frustrating and comforting. And he had stayed with her that night, and for several nights afterward. Once she was asleep, he'd gone to sleep on the couch, though he could have used the spare bedroom...or _her_ bedroom...but he kept as far from that degree of intimacy with her as he could get.

He had taken her to every therapy session and waited outside for her. He had listened to her whenever she felt the need to talk, a need he himself seemed not to have. Eames was a smart woman. Several times she succeeded in easing him into a conversation that showed every sign of leading someplace, but just before they got where she wanted them to be, he would change the subject. She alternated between wanting to smack the crap out of him and wanting to draw him close and never let him go. Her biggest problem was that she had no idea what _he_ wanted.

As far as Eames knew, Brady was still scheduled to die the next day, at midnight. She had no intention of being there, and she doubted that her partner did either. There was no reason for him to go, and the fact that Brady wanted him there was added incentive for him not to go. She could not explain Brady's intense interest in Goren, and it made her uncomfortable. She was grateful that it was almost over.

Ross came looking for them just before six, but Goren had already gone. The captain told her that Brady's final attempt at delaying his execution had run out. It was done. She breathed a silent sigh of relief and Ross told her, "Let your partner know that."

"I will, sir."

"Uh, how is his mother?"

"Not good. I don't think she is going to be around much longer."

"Keep me informed, will you, please?"

She nodded and watched the man walk off. Ross had cut Goren a great deal of slack over the past year. He had skittered at the edge of control often, and even she had trouble reeling him in. She understood Ross' position. He had to establish himself as the man in command, and Goren in particular had difficulty with authority. But Deakins had learned how to handle him and so, in time, would Ross, she was certain.

* * *

Early the next morning, she stepped into a hot shower. She had talked with Bobby late the night before and he'd sounded so...tired. She knew the end was near for his mother and she had offered to sit with him at Carmel Ridge, but he had told her no. As was his tendency when he was hurting, he had withdrawn into himself and he wasn't going to let anyone in. Eames knew him. She knew when to push and when to retreat. Remembering what had transpired in November, she knew that right now, it was time to retreat. The time would come to push, and she was determined not to be shy about it this time. When the circumstance presented itself, she had every intention of pushing, hard. One way or another, she was going to convince her stubborn partner that he was not alone in the world.

The phone rang as she stepped from the shower and she ran into the bedroom to grab it. "Eames."

"It's me."

Her heart dropped and the towel fell from her hand. "Bobby? No..."

"Yes. Sh-she died, about an hour ago. I, uh, I have to handle things here...so...I won't be in today..."

"Do you want me to come out there?"

"N-no. That's not necessary."

"Call me, if you need me. Please."

"Sure. Thank you, Eames."

"I'm sorry, Bobby."

Silence. Then a dial tone. She hung up the phone and sat on the bed. He wasn't going to call and she knew it. He was going to handle everything on his own, just as he always did. But she knew that showing up unannounced and uninvited would only serve to drive him further away. Right now, whether she liked it or not, he needed space, time to grieve and come to terms with his loss on his own. Only then would he be able to accept anything from her, even sympathy and support.

Sympathy...no...not sympathy. The last thing in the world he wanted was sympathy, which he equated with pity. That was why he had not told her in the first place when his mother was diagnosed with lymphoma. He had not wanted her pity. It was why he withdrew from the world and suffered in silence. Bobby met the world on his terms, and that did not involve sharing his burden with anyone. She wasn't certain how she was going to get him to let her in, but she had to do something. With his mother gone, and his brother's support unreliable at best, he had no one...no one but her. Now she only had to convince _him_ of that.

Still lost in thought, she dressed and drove into Manhattan. The first thing she did when she got to the squad room was talk to the captain. "Goren won't be in today, Captain. His mother passed away this morning."

Ross gave a heavy sigh. "You knew it was coming," he said gently.

She nodded. "But it doesn't make it any easier."

"Did you know her?"

"I met her once."

"Tell Goren I'm sorry for his loss."

"I will, captain."

The day passed in a fog. Her thoughts were with her partner and they never strayed far. She finished up the paperwork on the Brady case and sat in a conference room alone, leafing through the photographs of Brady's subjects, and his victims. Finally, she set the picture of the woman he called "Bambi" on the table in front of her. There was something about this one in particular that had struck a chord with her partner. She couldn't get away from it. What was so different about this well-worn photo? Someday, she would have to ask him.

Sliding the photo into its album, she set it aside and stared at the table in silent grief for the passing of a woman she barely knew. And it dawned on her that Frances Goren had passed onto her a sacred trust. She had given into her hands the only thing she had left that was still worth anything to her: her youngest son's heart. Now she just had to figure out what to do with it to keep her word.


	7. The End and the Beginning

Eames set the yellow legal pad on the desk in front of her and stared at Brady's careful script. A birthday gift? How could he know that Bobby's birthday was coming up. She was deeply unsettled by Brady's seemed familiarity with her partner, and she could derive no comfort from the fact that the man was going to die in six hours.

Ross had given this "gift" to her, trusting her to know when the right time would be to show it to her partner. Well, now was definitely not the right time. She leafed through the pages, reading the details of each victim Brady had claimed. _What a son of a bitch,_ she thought, feeling no remorse whatsoever for the impending execution.

As she continued reading the pages before her, she wondered just how far inside Brady's head Bobby had gotten. His grasp of psychology was impressive and she reflected that he would have made a very good psychologist. His ability to get inside the criminal mind was particularly unsettling, and she recalled something Declan Gage had said last fall. _He could have gone either way_. Instead of being partnered with a brilliant investigator, she could have found herself matching wits with an equally brilliant criminal mind. She shuddered reflexively at the thought, eternally grateful that somewhere along the way Bobby had been convinced to be a cop. If it was to Declan Gage she owed that gratitude, so be it. She was more grateful for having Bobby as her partner than she was resentful for the serial killer Gage had unwittingly turned his daughter into.

_He could have gone either way. _Was that a testament to the fundamental goodness of his gentle nature? To the fact that he had overcome an abusive childhood to become a kind, affectionate man? Or to the stubbornness she continually butted heads with? Was he a good man just because it _was _his nature, or was it because he was determined not to become the man his father had been or the one he had predicted his son would be? Either way, she decided it didn't matter. He was who he was in spite of, or maybe because of, the influences in his young life, and she loved him for the man he was today.

She flipped the pages of the pad back down and slid it into her top drawer. She would give it to him, but not today, or tomorrow, or maybe even next week. When he came back to work, then she would hand it over. Right now, he needed time to grieve. And part of her wondered if any of his grief would be spared for the serial killer who was scheduled to die that night. She had never been able to predict his sympathies.

* * *

Night had descended on the city by the time she left the squad room and headed for her car. When she got there, she leaned against it and pulled out her phone, calling Goren, to see how he was doing. On the last ring before it switched to voicemail, he answered. "Goren." 

He sounded exhausted, defeated. "How are you doing?"

"I'll be fine, Eames."

"That's not what I asked. I want to know how you're doing right now."

He was silent for a long moment. "I-I'm numb. I don't know what to do with myself."

"The captain sends his condolences. He said to take as much time as you need, and he means it."

There was a moment of silence before he said, "Tell him I said thank you."

"I will. Are you still at Carmel Ridge?" She prayed the answer would be no. How good could it have been for him to sit in his mother's empty room all this time?

"No. I'm...on my way home."

Another thing she was grateful for was that his mother had not lived with him. Then home would never have been his refuge. "Did you eat?"

"I'm not hungry."

"You should eat something anyway."

"Eames, I'm okay."

"Would you like me to come over?" This time she hoped the answer would be yes, although she knew it would not.

"No. I'm just going to try to sleep. I have to go to the funeral home tomorrow...m-make some decisions."

"Is your brother going to help you?"

"Help me?" He sounded genuinely confused. "With what? It's over, Eames. She's gone. There's no 'help' left."

She understood what he meant. Frank had not been there all this time. Everything had fallen to Bobby. The entire burden of their mother's illness had fallen on his broad shoulders and over the last year, he had buckled under the strain. Now he was coming out on the other side, and she wondered what it was going to do to him. Without his mother to worry about and care for, he was free in a way he had never been before in his life. She couldn't help but wonder how that freedom would affect him.

"Is there anything I can do for you?"

He started to speak, but stopped. Finally he said, "No, thank you, Eames. I..." In her mind's eye, she could see him shake his head. "Go home. I'll talk to you soon. Good night."

She looked at the screen on her phone._ Call ended._ She couldn't understand why he rejected every offer of help and support she gave him. But if she shoved it down his throat, he would choke. So...maybe he just needed to be spoonfed. Tomorrow, she would find out what funeral home he trusted to prepare his mother for her final journey to the grave. And she shuddered again at the thought of his grief. _Keep the world at arm's length; don't let anyone in._ It was time for her to begin her search for the chink in his armor, for the one small weakness that would bring the wall tumbling down and let her into his heart.

Her mind would not stop racing, and by the time she got home, she was still worried about Bobby, so she called him again. Once again, he answered on the last ring before it went to voicemail. "What is it, Eames?" he asked, his voice quiet.

"Are you home?"

"Yes, I'm home. You can rest easy. I'm not going anywhere until morning."

"What are you doing?"

"Why are you checking up on me?"

"Because I'm worried about you."

She heard his breath huff in frustration. "Stop it. Don't worry. I'm a big boy and I can take care of myself."

"Bobby, your mother just died. It's acceptable if you don't want to be alone. It's okay to let me know that it hurts. You don't have to deal with this alone."

"She was my mother. I dealt with her life on my own. I can deal with her death. Good night, Eames."

He wasn't giving her any chances to talk him into anything. She would have to talk face to face with him, so he couldn't hang up on her. He might still try to shut her out, but her words would reach his ears and he would hear what she had to say, whether he gave any indication or not.

_I dealt with her life on my own. _She laid back in her bed and sighed sadly. Yes, he had, but only because that was his choice. She had always offered her support. How many times had she been his guide through stormy waters, whether he realized it or not? She had steadied him when he faltered, guided him back from the edge of a very dark chasm more than once, and stood by him, even when he tried to send her away. He was difficult, of that there was no doubt, and he was hurting. Like an injured and cornered bear, he would be dangerous, wanting to be left alone to lick his wounds in private, but she was not afraid of him. He might lash out at her, but she was prepared for it, and she was not afraid to put him in his place.

* * *

_Holbrook Funeral Home_. It had not been difficult to find out where he'd had his mother taken. And there was his car, so she knew he was there. She told Ross she had some business to take care of and it had not been a lie. Bracing herself for a potential hurricane, she steeled her emotions and went into the building. 

A short balding man in a dark suit approached her after she came through the doors. "May I help you?"

His voice could best be described as mousy, pitched much higher than she had expected. In any other setting, it would have been comical. No wonder he became a mortician. This environment did not lend itself to levity. "I'm looking for Robert Goren."

"Ah, Mr. Goren is in the office with my brother. Come this way."

She followed him down a hallway to a plush, well-appointed office. "Excuse me, gentlemen," he interrupted. "This young lady is looking for you, Mr. Goren."

With a frown, Goren turned in his seat, getting to his feet when he recognized his partner. "Eames...what are you doing here?"

Before she could answer, he looked at the man behind the desk. "Please excuse us for a minute, Mr. Holbrook."

"Of course. Take your time."

Unlike his brother, the other Mr. Holbrook was tall, with a thick head of hair and a deep voice. The contrast between them was stark. Goren took her elbow and led her partway down the hall. "What's up?" he asked.

She met his eyes, steeling herself for his reaction. "I wanted to see you, Bobby. I needed to see for myself that you really are all right."

He looked tired, maybe a little hungover, but he did seem all right. There was a profound sadness in his eyes, but she expected that. "See?" he said. "I'm fine. Now go on back to work. Call me later."

"Are you sure? I can stay for a little while..."

"That's not necessary. I'm just finalizing the arrangements. Mom took care of most of this herself a long time ago."

"Isn't there something I can do? Don't you think she would appreciate any part I would take in this?"

Her question gave him pause. He closed his eyes and she had an overwhelming temptation to touch his cheek. But he was so wound up, she was afraid that if she did, he would shatter into a thousand pieces. So she contented herself with brushing her fingers over his hand.

He opened his eyes in surprise and she noticed a fine tremor that coursed through his body. "O-okay..." he said, giving in by making a small concession. "Come into the office and you can choose the memorial verse."

In her mind that was a huge concession. The casket was going to be buried under six feet of soil, along with what she wore and any personal mementos Bobby saw fit to bury with her. But the memorial verse...that was what people would take with them. Years from now, it would be what they would remember Frances Goren by. Eyes moist, she nodded and he led her back to the office, warm fingers gently gripping her upper arm. And she knew that whether he realized it or not, he was reaching out, seeking contact. So she stayed close.

He held the chair for her, gently guided her into it, gentleman that he was. Then he sat beside her. She noticed that he shuffled the chair just a little closer to hers. She was close enough to touch, and that was good enough for him. "Mr. Holbrook, this is my partner, Alex Eames. She will choose the memorial verse."

The mortician looked surprised. "Are you certain, Mr. Goren? That is a very personal decision."

Goren nodded. "I'm sure. If I trust her with my life, I can trust her with this."

"Very well." He handed her a small booklet, filled with verses and designs. "Look through these, Ms. Eames." He returned his attention to her partner, and she heard a slow staggered breath from him, too soft for anyone but her to hear, even in the solitude of the funeral home. She focused her attention on the booklet, but moved her hand, surprised to find his so close. She gently closed her fingers around his hand, surprised when he turned it over and gripped hers firmly. She felt tears of relief flood into her eyes and she blinked them away. So far, he was not rejecting her support. That could very well change in a matter of hours, but for now, she would give anything he was willing to take.

She put a lot of thought into the choice she made, and she knew he would approve. It was the poem _What is Death_, by Henry Scott Holland:

_Death is nothing at all  
I have only slipped away into the next room  
I am I and you are you  
Whatever we were to each other  
That we are still  
Call me by my old familiar name  
Speak to me in the easy way you always used  
Put no difference into your tone  
Wear no forced air of solemnity or sorrow  
Laugh as we always laughed  
At the little jokes we always enjoyed together  
Play, smile, think of me, pray for me  
Let my name be ever the household word that it always was  
Let it be spoken without effort  
Without the ghost of a shadow in it  
Life means all that it ever meant  
It is the same as it ever was  
There is absolute unbroken continuity  
What is death but a negligible accident?  
Why should I be out of mind  
Because I am out of sight?  
I am waiting for you for an interval  
Somewhere very near  
Just around the corner  
All is well.  
Nothing is past; nothing is lost  
One brief moment and all will be as it was before  
How we shall laugh at the trouble of parting when we meet again!_

After reading it, he looked at her, and she could see in his eyes that he approved. "Uh, would you please excuse us one more time, Mr. Holbrook?"

"Of course."

He guided her back into the hall and tipped his head to look into her face. "Thank you, Eames," he said gently. "I couldn't have done better. You can go back to work now. I'm all right. I'll call you later."

"Are you sure, Bobby?"

He nodded. "She took care of things before she died, set everything up the way she wanted it. What you just did...that would have been the most difficult thing for me to do, and I appreciate that you were willing to make that decision. Go on, before Ross starts calling. I don't want you in trouble because of me."

"Promise you'll call?"

"I'll call."

On an impulse, she leaned in and kissed his cheek. "I'm here if you need me," she whispered into his ear.

"Thank you," he murmured in reply.

She watched him head back into the office, and she left the funeral home to return to the squad room.

* * *

When she was done at work, she called him. He didn't answer, and that worried her. She called again when she got to her car. No answer. Knowing she would never sleep if she did not know he was all right, she headed toward his apartment. 

He didn't answer the door, and she hesitated to use the key he had given her for emergencies. She wasn't certain this constituted an emergency, and she did not want to intrude on his privacy. His car parked outside both reassured her and increased her anxiety; why didn't he answer?

Finally making her decision, she found the key and opened the door. As she looked around the normally tidy apartment, her mind hunted for a word to describe it...disheveled, that was it...like Bobby had been for the past few weeks as his mother's health had taken its final decline. He'd had precious little time for anything but work and his mother, and the usual meticulous care he took of his living space had suffered neglect. A box of take-out was still on the coffee table, along with an assortment of empty beer bottles and an overfilled ashtray.

She walked slowly down the hallway. His bedroom door was open partway, and she gently eased it open until she could see the bed. He was laying on the bed, on his stomach, breathing deeply. She smiled sadly. Walking into the room, she noticed an empty bottle on the floor next to the bed and she softly sighed. She slipped his shoes off and covered him with a blanket. Stopping beside the bed, she ran her hand through his hair. He didn't move. Leaning down, she kissed his temple. Picking up the bottle, she left the room.

Back in the living room, she gathered the empty bottles and the take-out container, which she would not even hazard a guess as to its age, and carried them into the kitchen. The bottles went into the nearly full recycling container which sat in an open area beneath a counter next to the refrigerator. She threw the carton in the garbage, emptied the ashtray and cleaned the coffee table. She washed the dishes that were in the sink, mostly coffee cups, and cleaned the counters and the table. Satisfied with the restored state of his apartment, she sat down on the couch and considered what to do.

She wanted to stay, but she realized that might not be a popular decision when he woke in the morning. Reluctantly, she left him to sleep and headed home to Rockaway, reassured that he was safe at home. The next few days would be busy ones for him, as he would spend the days and evenings at the funeral home for his mother's wake. She fervently hoped Frank would show up. He owed Bobby—and their mother—at least that much.

She had checked with the funeral home, and the "viewing" was scheduled for the next three days, from nine to two and five to nine. She had let Ross know and she'd called Jimmy Deakins, to tell him. She had also taken it upon herself to call his old squad, in case any of his former squadmates had any desire to offer their condolences. The captain assured her that he and several of his detectives would be there one evening. Logan, she knew, would be there every night, and so would she. Regardless of whether Frank put in an appearance or not, Bobby would not be alone as he said good-bye to his mother.


	8. Lean on Me

Eames was on her way toward Manhattan the next morning when her cell phone rang. She was surprised to see her partner's name on the caller ID screen. Flipping the phone open, she said, "Good morning."

"If you say so...uh, were you here...last night?"

"I stopped by to check on you. You were out of it."

"Sorry. You, um, you didn't have to clean up."

"Yes, I did. I couldn't bear seeing the place out of order. I know you've been preoccupied. It was the least I could do."

"You've already done more than enough. Alex, you're my partner, but your responsibility doesn't involve washing my dishes or straightening my apartment."

"It wasn't your partner that did those things. It was your friend."

He was silent for a moment. "Thank you," he said quietly.

"You're welcome. I'll come by the funeral home after work...and don't tell me I don't have to. I'll be there."

Another silence followed before he said, "I'll see you later, then."

"Yes, you will. Bye."

She smiled to herself. He had not argued with her; he was no longer pushing her away so hard. Maybe this was the chink in his armor she had been searching for. She would have to tread lightly, give gentle but consistent pressure. Too much, and she knew he would shatter. Not enough, and she would lose every inch of headway she had gained. This was a lesson he was resistant to learning, but she was pleased to realize that he was indeed learning it.

* * *

When she took her lunch break, Eames drove to the funeral home. The room where the wake was taking place was just off the large main entry foyer. Entering the room, she was pleased to see a respectable crowd gathered to pay their respects. Her eyes searched the room until she spotted her partner, standing near the casket in a dark suit, looking tired. She recognized the two men he was talking to: his friend Lewis and Fin Tutuola from Manhattan's Special Victims Unit. Fin, she knew, had worked with Goren in Narcotics and she was pleased to see him there. 

She knew the moment he spotted her. His entire demeanor changed, though she could not explain how. She wasn't even sure anyone in the room, except perhaps Lewis, knew him well enough to notice. He excused himself from the conversation and approached her. Not saying a word, he gently grasped her elbow, looked around the room and led her out into the foyer. Guiding her off to the side, he tipped his head to look into her eyes. "Y-you did this," he said softly.

She looked confused. "Did what?"

"You...made some phone calls."

"Only to people I thought might want to know."

"Th-they didn't know her."

"It's not about her, Bobby. She's beyond caring now. This is about you. A funeral is more than just saying good-bye to the one we've lost. It's more about supporting the ones left behind. Those people know you, and they're here to support you...just like I am."

He stared at her as her words rattled about in his mind. She thought that she had never seen him so solemn. "I-I don't know what to say."

"Then don't say anything. I have no expectations, Bobby. I did what I thought was right, what I thought was best for you. I just want to get you through this in one piece, physically, mentally and emotionally. I know you think you're alone in the world now, but I am here to tell you that you're not."

He was overwhelmed by this woman on so many levels. His fingers brushed lightly over her cheek. "Th-thank you," was all he could think of to say.

With a small, sad smile, she returned his caress, letting her fingers smooth over the stubble on his cheek. "You're welcome."

His eyes slid closed at her touch and he hesitated a moment longer than necessary before withdrawing and returning to the room where his mother lay awaiting burial. She wanted to follow him, wanted to say more, but she suddenly felt so overwhelmed the only thing she could think of to do was leave. So she returned to the streets, warmed by the summer sun, leaving behind the cool, dim quiet of the funeral home and the partner she felt she would never understand.

* * *

Eames returned to the funeral home that night, as soon as she was done for the day at the squad room. Ross would be there later, she knew, and so would Mike Logan. But she wanted to get there first, to assess Bobby's state of mind. 

She arrived at four-thirty, knowing the room would not be open for viewing for another half hour yet, but also knowing without doubting that he had not left all day. The mousy Mr. Holbrook recognized her and silently motioned her toward the closed door of the viewing room behind the sign that displayed his mother's name. She mouthed 'thank you' and went into the room.

The empty room was neat and a few degrees below cool. She shivered for a moment. There was no missing the big man who sat in a chair near the casket, looking at the floor. Silently, she approached him, drawing a chair to rest alongside his. She sat down.

He didn't move for a moment. Finally lifting his head, he turned it so that he could see her. She was not surprised to see the misery on his face, but she was taken aback by the hollowness in his eyes. She had long known this time would come and that it would be interminably difficult for him. Choosing to remain silent, she reached out a hand. Cool fingers touched warm hand and he allowed her to interweave her fingers with his.

Once again, he had no idea what to say, so he said nothing. But he continued to look at her, hoping to convey his gratitude without words. For all his impressive skill with vocabulary, he could not find the right combination of syllables to say thank you to this woman for her support and for her unwavering devotion to his well-being. He moistened his lips. "Eames..."

His voice was hoarse, and she silenced him by placing the fingers of her other hand against lips that had not remained moist. "When the last visitor leaves," she said softly. "You are coming with me. Do you understand me?"

He was tired and he didn't have it in him to protest. Mutely, he nodded. The gentle pressure of her fingers against his lips eased and those same fingers drew lightly across his cheek in a solid gesture of support and affection. She spoke again. "I will be here all evening. I'll mingle with the people who come to pay their respects and offer you support, and I will thank them for coming. And when they leave, we are going to get something to eat, and then you are going to sleep tonight, without alcohol and without being alone. I have a spare bedroom, and you are going to use it. I'll drop you off back here in the morning on my way to work. And if you even think about arguing with me, I'll show you that the fury of a woman scorned can't hold a candle to me."

The ghost of a smile touched his face and he spoke the only words that would come to him. "Thank you, Eames."

Remaining true to her word, Eames stayed and played host to the people who came to pay their respects to Frances Goren and the devoted son she left behind. Quiet and mostly withdrawn, Goren made small talk with the visitors. He was surprised when the Chief of Detectives and his wife made an appearance but he was utterly shocked when Deputy Commissioner Dockerty and his wife came into the room. He had made no points with Dockerty during the investigation into his daughter's disappearance last Thanksgiving. In their own way they were repaying in kind his own efforts, acknowledging that he had taken time to leave his ailing mother's bedside and attend their daughter's funeral. Now they were taking part in the ritualism designed to assuage his grief. His eyes, accompanied by his thoughts and a heart filled with gratitude, sought out his partner, who was across the room, talking with Ross and Logan. She must have sensed his gaze because she looked up and met his eyes, She smiled briefly before turning back to her conversation. She had to have called the Dockertys, reminding them of what was, in her mind, an obligation., knowing he himself would never see it as such. He knew from experience how formidable his partner could be when her mind was made up.

Anyone who knew Goren, or knew of him, was not surprised to see Eames there, his right hand, keeping him firmly grounded in the living world to which he still belonged. Among the minds of those cops present, she was the epitome of what a partner should be, and they wondered if called upon to do for their own partners what Eames had always done for Goren whether they would be up to that task. Periodically, Eames would cross the span of the room to his side to speak softly with him, and the brief conversation always ended with a nod from him and a sad, reassuring smile from her. Some still wondered if the partners were lovers, but there was no indication of that sort of familiarity between them, and the question remained unanswered.

Jimmy and Angie Deakins came by and stayed for a good portion of the evening, and so did John Eames, whose wife was not up to a trip to Brooklyn. But as the night wore on, there was one person Goren watched for who never showed up: his brother.

* * *

It was ten o'clock by the time Goren and Eames left the funeral home, heading for her car. The Holbrook brothers told him it was fine to leave his car there for the night. Eames debated whether to stop at a diner or cook for him at her place. His apparent fatigue was her deciding factor. She wanted him to eat so she stopped at a diner.

There was no doubt in Eames' mind that her partner was now functioning purely as a matter of routine. His body knew what to do because it had gone through those actions so many times before. She ordered for them both, pancakes and eggs, juice instead of coffee, toast for him and an English muffin for her. He gave her no argument about eating, and she sadly reflected that there was no passion at all in him at the moment. For once, though, there was no question in her mind what he was feeling or why he had withdrawn from her, and she left him alone.

Once they arrived at her house, she parked and opened the back door, pulling out an overnight bag and a brown garment bag. He took the garment bag from her and eyed the familiar overnight bag she carried. "Eames?"

"I stopped at your place after I left the funeral home this afternoon. You need clean clothes and I have nothing for you to shave with unless you really want to use a Lady Bic and floral scented shaving gel. Personally, I prefer your aftershave."

Once more, she saw the fleeting ghost of a smile flitter across his face. "Thank you...again."

She glanced at him as she slid her door key in the lock and turned it. "Thank _you_, Bobby."

"For what?"

"For letting me do this for you."

She noticed the light flush that accompanied his shy smile as she pushed the door open. She handed the overnight bag to him and pointed deeper into the house. "You know where everything is. Go shower and relax. I'll just be out here ."

He met her eyes for a fleeting moment before he headed in the direction she had indicated. She watched him go, reading fatigue and defeat in every movement he made. She went into the kitchen and pulled a small pill bottle from her pocket, setting it on the refrigerator. She hoped he would sleep, but if not, she'd convinced Rogers write her a prescription for him. If it went unused, so much the better, but she had it if he needed it.

Pouring milk into a mug, she warmed it in the microwave for thirty-five seconds and added a little bit of Quik. Stepping out onto the back deck that overlooked the small yard, she looked up at the sky. Only the brightest stars were able to penetrate the city's lights. "Just like I promised," she said softly to the sky, addressing Frances Goren. "I'm taking care of him."

Overhead, bright but fleeting, a shooting star streaked across the sky, a meteor fragment, burning to a fiery, spectacular death. She chose to take it as a sign that his mother had heard her, and she smiled. "You're welcome."


	9. Running Interference

Eames was not an early riser. She was one of those people who hit the snooze button three times before she finally rolled out of her bed at the last minute with just enough time to get ready and get out the door to make it to work on time. But occasionally she made an exception. Breakfast was ready when she eased the guest room door open the next morning. She stood there for a few minutes, watching the easy rise and fall of her partner's bare chest. The warm sensation that coursed through her body and settled deeply in the center of her being unnerved her, but she steeled herself against it and entered the room. The sheet was bunched around his waist, revealing the waistband of his boxers, and she breathed a sigh of relief that he did not sleep naked. Or maybe he did, just not there. She reluctantly chased an image from her mind before it got her into unwanted trouble.

Reaching out a hand, she let it course along the side of his face as she softly called his name. His eyes fluttered open, and he blinked in confusion, trying to remember why she was there. Realization dawned slowly, and he remembered. "Eames..."

"Breakfast is ready," she said softly.

"B-breakfast?"

"Yes, Bobby. That's one of those meal things you're supposed to eat every day. Now come on, before it gets cold."

He watched her leave the room, and his bleary mind wondered why she was doing this. He got up and dressed quickly, trying to figure out why she'd packed three of his suits instead of one. He had no intention of imposing on her kindness for more than this one night.

He joined her at the table, where she had set a cup of coffee and a plate brandishing scrambled eggs, sausage and toast. "Eames...you don't have to go to this trouble..."

"Bobby..." She waited for his mouth to slide closed and his eyebrows to lift curiously. "Stop talking and eat your breakfast or I'll be late for work."

He hesitated and looked as if he was going to say something, but the expression on her face did not invite discussion. He lowered his eyes to his plate and poked at his food. Softly she encouraged, "Eat it. Don't tease it."

Looking up again, he saw the trace of a smile on her face. She had done so much for him lately. Was it too much to ask of him to eat one meal? He lowered his eyes and did as she asked.

Her heart went out to him. He was lost and in pain and he didn't quite know how to cope. The world had never been a friendly place for him, but now it was cold and foreign. She knew he still felt alone, in spite of her efforts to assure him he was not. Keeping her word to his mother was going to be a challenge because she knew he was going to be resistant to her efforts. What it would boil down to was going to be a war of wills, and it was a war she was determined to win.

When she got up from the table, finished with her meal, he moved to do the same, but she waved a hand at him. "Finish eating. I still have time."

She was washing her plate when he came up behind her and leaned past her to set his empty plate and cup in the sink. He remained behind her for a moment, close but not touching, and she wondered if his body felt the same heat hers did. Somehow, she doubted it. Warm breath, scented with coffee, floated past her face as he softly thanked her. Half a step backward and she would be against his body...and then he would panic. The moment passed too soon and he moved away. "Uh, thank you, Eames...for letting me stay last night."

"How did you sleep?"

"B-better."

He had no explanation for his reluctance to admit it was the best night's sleep he could remember getting in many months. He actually felt refreshed to a degree he had forgotten existed. His body coursed with an energy that had been sorely lacking in recent months. His mind was not muddled and he felt almost ready to face another difficult day.

He waited for her to lock up the house as they left for the day, heading for the car. The ride to Brooklyn was passed mostly in silence. His demeanor did not welcome conversation, and she left him to his thoughts. When she pulled up outside the funeral home, she touched his arm before he could disembark and disappear into the building. "I'll be back tonight."

He hesitated. "You know, that's not necessary..."

"It is," she insisted. "For me. Do you plan to deny me this chance to help you cope with your loss?"

"I..." When she put it that way, there was only one answer he could give without coming across as a jerk. "Whatever you think, Eames. I'll see you later, then."

"Will you come home with me again tonight?"

He shook his head slowly. "That's not necessary. I am perfectly capable..."

"Bobby...don't lie to me. I will sleep better having you nearby, even if it's just until the funeral is over."

He looked down at the curb, where his foot rested. "I-I'll consider it."

"Call me if you need me."

"Thank you, Eames."

She watched him cross the street and enter the building where his mother lay waiting for her final journey toward a peaceful rest, something she never knew in life and had not allowed for her son. She pulled away from the curb and headed for Manhattan.

* * *

Finding herself lacking her partner was an unsettling experience for Eames. She hated being tied to a desk as much as he did, but she knew Ross would not give her a case until he was back. So she helped Logan and Wheeler with their case, feeling very much like a spare tire. 

She took off from work early and arrived at the funeral home around four, bearing a cup of hot coffee and a paper bag containing a pastrami sandwich for Goren. She found him in the same chair, not looking quite as forlorn, but still much more distressed than she ever liked to see him.

He took the bag with a small smile. "Thank you, Eames."

"Would you consider going for a walk with me, before the evening viewing starts?"

"A-a walk?"

"Yeah, you know...you put one foot in front of the other..."

He tipped his head and raised an eyebrow at her, forcing a smile from her. "Come on. I know you can multi-task. Walk with me while you eat."

"D-did you eat?"

"Yes. I had lunch, and I know you didn't. Now I've been cooped up inside all day, and so have you. Come on."

She gently tugged on the sleeve of his jacket. It was all the encouragement she needed to give. They left the funeral home and walked together in the Brooklyn neighborhood. Kids ran around the side streets, playing stick ball and tag and other games that children play in the late summer afternoons before being called to dinner. Eames imagined Bobby and his brother doing the same things, wondering if it had been fun play or an escape for the two children of Frances Goren.

They walked in silence, and she sensed a return of his easy, relaxed gait. A night of decent sleep can do wonders for body and soul. "Come home with me tonight again," she offered.

He didn't answer right away, walking in silence for better than half a block. "I-I appreciate your offer," he said finally. "But I can't...I won't...impose on you..."

"It's no imposition. It's nice...to not be alone for a change."

He gave that some thought. Often, he craved the solitude of his empty apartment. But right now, being alone was something he...dreaded. But he did feel he was imposing on her, and he felt that he had no right to do that. Instinctively, she knew what he was thinking, not because she could read his mind, but because she knew him so well. She stepped a half step closer to his side, brushing her hand over his. "I'm offering, Bobby. That removes the imposition from the equation."

Sleeping in her spare room had broken a dangerous cycle of coping for him. Since his mother had chosen to end her chemotherapy treatments, and by default, her life, his life had slipped into a downward spiral he was not capable of halting. He slept sporadically, usually driven by total exhaustion or enough alcohol to let him ease into a sleep that was never restful. Now he found himself facing an odd dilemma. With his mother gone, once she was finally at rest in the cemetery where he had buried his father, or the man he thought was his father, he wasn't sure what to do with his life. For so many years, daily calls and weekly visits had been his routine. He had always been at her beck and call. Now...outside of work, he was going to find himself with spare time, and he had no idea what to do with it. _Get a hobby, man, _Lewis had encouraged. _Come to the shop and help me restore that old T-bird at the back of my yard. _

He was tempted. Logan's offer to go clubbing with him was also tempting. It had been far too long since he had enjoyed a warm body beside his own, and he was _not_ thinking of Logan. Maybe it was finally time for him to start a family. But there was one major hurdle to clear for that to happen: he had to find a woman who could put up with him for more than a few months. That was a major stumbling block. He sighed wearily and looked at his partner. "Are you sure, Eames?"

"You know me, Bobby. I would never ask if I wasn't."

"I, uh, I'll think about it." He looked at his watch. "We'd better get back."

They walked back to the funeral home, but before they went through the doors, he touched her elbow and met her eyes. "Thank you...for lunch and for the walk."

"You're welcome."

He allowed his gaze to linger for a few moments before he pulled the door open and followed her into the cool interior of the building.

* * *

It was just before eight o'clock. There was a respectable number of people gathered in the room, and Eames was busy making small talk and trying to keep an eye on her partner. He still seemed to be holding up fairly well. Lewis and Mike were doing a good job of distracting him, and she was glad to see they even managed to elicit a brief laugh from him occasionally. Between conversations, she had drifted to his side to check on him. He would rest his hand against her back and dip his head to speak softly to her, assuring her he was all right. 

She was the first to notice Frank Goren's arrival. She had to remind herself that Frances had been his mother, too, and he had every right to be there. She also reminded herself that he had spent the last weeks of her life visiting her, and that had, in her mind, earned him the right to be there unchallenged. But something wasn't quite right, and a red flag was raised at the back of her mind. She wasn't sure exactly what was out of place, until he stepped through the doorway into the room. She knew little about Frank except that he had a gambling addiction as well as trouble with alcohol and drugs. It was the latter addiction that was presenting itself at his mother's wake.

She started toward him, hoping to intercept him before his brother noticed him, but she was too late. Bobby approached him first. She muttered a soft prayer under her breath that the brothers would have the good sense not to fight in the presence of their mother's body.

Remaining silent, she stepped up behind her partner and watched the exchange between them. Goren's gaze slid up and down his brother's body. His suit was rumpled, his tie loosened and he wavered where he stood. "Dammit, Frank," he growled softly. "How could you? Why bother showing up at all?"

"I came to pay my respects."

"In this condition? Come on...you have no respect, for yourself or for her."

"Look, Bobby," he began.

That was it. She saw the muscles in Goren's back bunch and she reached out, laying a hand against his jacket just above his waist. "Hello, Frank," she said with false brightness as she stepped up to Bobby's side.

Frank looked her over for a moment before he recognized her. "A-Alex, isn't it?"

"Yes. Why don't I take you over to the casket, so you can pay proper respect to your mother?"

She pressed her hand firmly into her partner's back before she stepped from his side and slipped her arm into Frank's. "Come on."

Taking the chance to glance up into Goren's face, she expected to see a storm gathering there. Instead, she was met by an impassive wall. She could not read his expression and his eyes were guarded. When she reached out to touch his arm, he didn't react at all. Her eyes pleaded for understanding as she stepped away to lead his brother to the casket.

She remained by Frank's side for the remainder of his visit, making absolutely certain neither brother got out of control. She did not have to look to feel her partner's eyes on her, but whether he was watching for her safety or boiling with resentment, she had no idea. Every time she looked his way, she saw the same impassive look on his face.

She made up her mind that she was not going to apologize to Goren for preventing a major scene from developing between him and Frank. She had only met his mother once, and regardless of what had transpired in their past, she had spoken of both sons with love. She had not been able to help the fact that she was ill, or that her illness robbed her of her ability to be a good mother. Eames was not going to have them desecrate her memory by brawling at her wake. If they were so inclined to pick it up at another place and time, so be it. This was not it, and she was not going to allow it.

At a quarter til nine, Frank decided to take his leave and Eames walked him to the door. "I'm glad you came, Frank. I know it would have pleased your mother. The funeral is the day after tomorrow and we expect you to attend with proper respect."

Frank looked at her and he had the decency to be ashamed. "Uh, t-tell Bobby I'm sorry...to disappoint him again. Thank you for your kindness. I'll see you at the funeral."

He slipped out the door and was gone. But Eames was still tense and uptight. She wasn't certain at all what Goren thought about her interference, but she did not regret it. Turning back into the room, she avoided his gaze and returned to mingling among those who remained.

The door closed on the last visitor at twenty after nine, leaving Eames and Goren alone in the room with the casket. She busied herself lining up the chairs, even though she knew the Holbrook brothers would take care of it. She was too uncomfortable to not be busy. She could still feel his eyes on her, and that increased her discomfort.

When she was done moving chairs, she decided it was time for her to leave. She still had not looked at him; she was afraid of what she would see in his eyes. She had only done what she thought was best. If he couldn't understand that, there was nothing more she could say to him that would convince him she was thinking of him.

Lifting her light jacket from a nearby chair, she folded it over her arm and started for the door. The sound of his voice caught her off guard. "Where are you going?"

"I'm not spending the night in a funeral home."

He was quiet for a moment. "Are you going to say good night?"

It was her turn to be quiet. Finally she said, "Are you angry?"

"No."

"Do you...understand...why I did what I did?"

"Yes. But I don't get why you're mad at me right now."

She turned to face him. "I'm not."

"You were going to leave...without saying a word."

"I wasn't up to giving you the chance to lash out at me."

"What made you think I would?"

"The way you withdrew and remained so impassive after I took Frank up to the casket."

"That wasn't for you, Eames. That was for my brother. I had to distance myself from my anger or I would have pounded the crap out of him."

"That's what I was trying to avoid."

"I know."

Another silence stretched between them. "So," she said after a time. "Shall I say good night?"

"You're withdrawing your offer?"

"You want to take me up on it?"

He hesitated for a long moment before he finally breathed his answer. "Yes."

He was reluctant to be alone tonight. His brother's appearance in the condition he was in had tapped a well of fury he was still struggling to contain. He found Eames' presence to be calming, and he was surprised at his own reluctance to let her leave without him. When her face relaxed from a frown into a small smile, he felt better. "Let's go, then," she said.

He felt some of his tension dissipate and he buttoned his jacket as he followed her to her car, relieved that she was not leaving him, too, even for the span of a night. He was loathe to admit it, but he needed her, and he wasn't at all certain how she would react to that, so he kept it to himself.

* * *

She let them into her house and indicated that he should feel free to make himself at home. He wasn't certain he felt at home anyplace, even in his own apartment. He sat on the edge of the couch as she disappeared into the kitchen. "Put the news on," she suggested. 

He did as she asked and waited for her. She came out of the kitchen with two plates and two cans of cola, handing him one of each. "It's a quick dinner," she said by way of apology.

He gave her a brief smile and touched her hand when she sat down, expressing his gratitude in silence. She returned his smile and gave his hand a squeeze.  
In silence they ate and watched the news. Without prompting, he rose and carried both plates and the empty cans to the kitchen, where he cleaned up. She watched him return to the couch and sit back beside her. "Thank you," he said at last. "For handling my brother. I would never have done as well."

"I wasn't about to let either of you create a scene in front of all those people. It was neither the time nor the place."

"I-I know. You...did the right thing."

"I'm sorry he couldn't show up sober."

"So am I."

The silence between them resumed, but it was no longer uncomfortable. After the news, he asked, "D-Do you mind, if I shower again?"

"Not at all. Your shaving supplies are still in the bathroom."

He stood and looked down at her. "Thank you again, Eames."

Her smile was kind, her face honest and open. "What are friends for?"

He studied her for a moment, but said nothing more before turning away and heading for the hallway that led to the bathroom and both bedrooms.

She watched television for another twenty minutes before turning it off and making certain the house was secure. Stopping in front of the guest room door, she pushed it open to check on him. He was in bed and, she assumed, sleeping. But as she moved to leave the room and close the door, he said, "Is something wrong?"

"No. I just wanted to make sure you were all right."

He pushed up onto his elbows and looked at her, silhouetted against the hallway light, which spilled across the bed at his waist. "I'm fine."

"Good. Then...good night, Bobby."

"Good night, Eames."

She pulled the door closed and after a moment, he laid back down and turned onto his side, waiting for sleep to claim him.


	10. Final Journey

She studied herself in the mirror, smoothing her hands over the dark calf-length skirt she had chosen for the day. The sleeveless dark top was a few shades lighter and comfortable. Sitting on the bed, she pulled on a pair of black boots and gave herself one more perusal in the mirror. She hated funerals, and this one promised to be one of the most difficult she'd ever attended. It would be difficult not because the deceased had departed before her time, but because she had departed before her son was ready to let her go. This funeral was going to drive home the finality of his loss once and for all.

The final day of Frances Goren's wake was uneventful. Frank had not returned. Lewis and Mike Logan both showed up for the third night in a row, offering both support and distraction to Goren. It made Eames smile to watch the three men interact. Lewis and Logan got along well, and together they not only made her partner smile, but they were even able to get him to laugh. Her heart swelled with gratitude.

Eames left her bedroom and hesitated outside the bathroom as Goren's aftershave was carried on the warm, humid air that rolled out into the hallway. She closed her eyes for a moment, unable to sort out her feelings. She made quick work of suppressing them and struggled to keep her voice even. "Everything okay in there, Bobby?"

"Fine. I'll be right out."

"Are you hungry?" She already knew the answer but felt obliged to ask nevertheless.

"No. But I made coffee while you were in the shower."

"Thank you."

She smiled at the comfortable feeling of domesticity that struck her. He had settled in a little more, feeling more at ease being in her house. Some of his guilt had been chased away by her assertion that she felt much more at ease having him there. She knew he assumed it was a fallout from her kidnapping, and some of it was, but most of it was reassurance that he was close and that he was okay. He was letting her take care of him, and that lifted a huge burden from her mind and her heart. If only...no...she refused to dwell on uncertainties. She continued into the kitchen for her coffee.

* * *

The trip to Brooklyn was made in silence. She had no idea what to say, and he was preoccupied anyway. He shifted nervously in his seat and she knew he was dreading the day's events. She found herself feeling relieved that Logan and Lewis would both be there, and she wondered at that. Was she thinking perhaps that she couldn't handle him by herself? Or that it would be nice to have a little of the burden shifted from her shoulders? Another thought occurred to her: Frank. He was likely to show up, and that made her more than a little nervous. How would Bobby react to him, under the weight of everything that burdened him? Again, she was glad that Logan and Lewis would be there. 

She parked outside the funeral home, glad that Goren had driven his car home last night before he'd come home with her for the third night in a row. She had a feeling that her life was heading toward a level of complexity it hadn't known before. Ever since that night at the Lookout on Long Island her thoughts of him were getting increasingly out of control. As much as she felt herself wanting a deeper relationship with him, she realized that any sort of advance beyond friendship from her at the current time would be likely to spiral him into a meltdown. So she remained within the boundaries she knew he could accept. He would not reject overtures of friendship, she was now certain, so those were the parameters within which she was forced to operate...at least for now.

Eames was surprised that Logan had arrived before them even more than she was surprised that he had come to the funeral home so early rather than meet them at the church at ten. He was determined to be supportive and to be a friend at a time when Goren very much needed him to be one. When she hugged him in greeting, she spoke softly into his ear. "Thank you, Mike."

"Don't mention it. You can buy me dinner sometime."

She laughed and smacked his shoulder. Logan was irrepressible. Turning, her heart went out to her partner, seeing him standing near the casket, looking down on his mother's body. She looked as frail as she had in life, but there was no longer a voice to destroy that impression of frailty. She crossed the room, stepping up beside him. Reaching out, she let her fingertips skim the back of his right hand. As her hand fell away from his, he did something unexpected. His hand came out and grasped hers, holding it firmly. She lightly caressed his thumb with hers, and he let out a heavy breath. "I guess this is it," he whispered.

"I guess so. Please don't forget I'll be right there for you. And so will Mike and Lewis."

"I-I know. I feel like...saying thank you has become...hollow, I've said it to you so often lately."

"Then stop saying it. I know how you feel, and you should know how I feel by now."

He looked at her, genuinely surprised. "I should? Eames...lately...I...I've lost my ability to...to read you."

"Then remember that everything I have done and everything I do, is done out of friendship, because I care about you, very much. You have to know at least that much."

He nodded. An overpowering wave of emotion rendered him incapable of making any response beyond giving her hand an affectionate squeeze which she readily returned. When he finally found his voice again and engaged it, it was very soft. "I-I can never repay you..."

"I would never ask you to," she answered when he trailed off. "Let's just get through this funeral, and we'll go back to my house and recover."

She knew him well, too well sometimes. He just nodded. When she finally stepped away from his side, she took whatever warmth he felt with her and he shuddered involuntarily. It was going to be a very long morning.

* * *

As they prepared to leave the funeral home, the door to the room pushed open and Frank Goren stuck his head in. Immediately, Eames looked at her partner. He saw his brother and he approached him. She lingered close by, in case she was needed, and let the brothers interact quietly. 

Frank stepped into the room, looking at the floor as his younger brother approached. "Bobby," he said softly once Goren was within earshot. "I am very sorry about the other night. You know I have trouble coping sometimes and I need...help."

"You need help, Frank, but not with coping."

"I know, I know. Face it, Bobby. I'm going to be fifty years old next year. It's too late to teach this old dog any new tricks."

Goren raised his hands. "It's your life, Frank. Just don't come to me expecting me to bail you out of it."

"Yeah, I know better. But I'm here right now, and I'm sober. I'll stay this way until the funeral's over. Then...I'll be out of your life again."

"You know that's not the way I want it."

"I know. But it's the way it has to be."

Frank gave him a sad smile, then stepped away and walked to the casket to say good-bye to their mother. Again Eames touched his hand and squeezed. He looked at her and gave her a brief nod. It was the only response he had in him.

* * *

Eames was pleased to see a respectable turn-out at the church. Some of the people there were doctors and nurses who had cared for Frances in the last years of her life. Some were old friends of hers that she had lost contact with but Bobby had not. She was pleased to see that her parents had been able to make it and even more pleased to see Deakins and his wife there. Ross was also there, in spite of the tension that existed between him and his brightest officer. She saw an assortment of Bobby's friends, an odd lot that had never ceased to amaze and amuse her. What touched her most, however, were the other people who had come, not to say good-bye to a woman they did not know, but to offer support for her son, whom they did. A good portion of their squad was there, and other officers Bobby knew from narcotics, from the lab and CSU, even Rodgers was there, which made her smile. In spite of her gruff exterior, the ME had a soft spot for Goren. She was used to cops collapsing in front of her table, not men like Goren who was never intimidated by anything that came into her morgue. Bobby feared the dead far less than he feared emotional intimacy with the living. 

She talked briefly with her parents before her father sent her to sit in the front pew and wait for her partner. He and his brother, Mike, Lewis and two of Bobby's other lifelong friends were the pall bearers, and they were outside at the hearse right now.

She sat between Goren and Logan through the familiar ritual of the Mass. Frank was seated on his brother's other side and Eames was glad that he was there, if for no other reason than it was his place to be there. Halfway through the Mass, she was surprised when Goren's hand sought hers, gripping it firmly. She squeezed back and he didn't release her until it was time for the Kiss of Peace and they had to interact with the people surrounding them. After communion, he again grasped her hand and held it until the benediction, when it was time for the men to return the casket to the hearse for the trip to the cemetery, where Frances would be laid to rest within walking distance of her late ex-husband, the father of her two sons.

* * *

Following the graveside service, she remained by Goren's side as he said thank you and good-bye to the people who had taken part of their day to attend the funeral of a woman most of them had never known. 

Finally, only Goren and Eames, Frank, Logan and Lewis remained. Frank once again apologized for turning up the way he had at the wake. He thanked Eames for stepping in to save both him and his brother from a great deal of embarrassment.

He held his hand out to his brother. "I'll see you around, little brother."

Goren pulled him into a hug. "Take care of yourself, big brother."

"I'm pretty good at that. Don't worry."

They watched him walk away until he was no longer in sight. Lewis clapped a hand on Goren's shoulder. "I gotta go, man. I have a Mustang that's getting picked up this afternoon and I'd better get it done. I still got that T-bird waiting to be worked on, if you're interested."

Goren gave him a hug. "Thanks, Lewis."

"Yeah—call me."

Logan shook his hand. "It was good to meet you, Lewis."

"Same here, Mike. You're welcome to come with Bobby to work on the car, if you want."

"Thanks."

Lewis smiled shyly at Eames. "Bye, Detective Alex."

She smiled back. "Bye, Lewis."

He headed away from the grave site toward his car. Logan looked around at the surrounding cemetery. "These places creep me out. You guys want to go out for a few drinks?"

Eames gave him an amused look. "It's lunchtime, Logan."

"Tonight then?"

He looked at Goren, who shrugged. "I'll call you later, Mike."

"All right. If I don't hear from you by six, I'll give you a ring."

"Okay."

Logan walked off, leaving Goren and Eames alone beside the casket. Eames looked up at her partner. "Are you ready?"

"Um, not quite. Would you...walk with me for a few minutes?"

"Of course. Where are we going?"

"To visit another grave."

He headed away from his mother's gravesite and she fell into step beside him. He hesitated for a moment, then reached his hand toward her, brushing his fingers across the back of her hand. She read his intent and gently grasped his hand. She heard him sigh softly and she smiled to herself. Without even trying she felt as though she was making some headway with him.

When he stopped, she looked at the headstone of the grave he was looking toward. _William M. Goren_. "Your father?"

He nodded. "You know, they are closer here in this cemetery than they were in life."

She didn't know what to say, so she remained silent. He stood by the grave, also silent, holding onto her hand with a firm grip. She could not even guess at what was going through his head. Finally, he turned away, and she remained beside him, glancing over her shoulder once as they walked toward the car.


	11. Finding Solid Ground

Eames took a long hot shower when they returned to her house, washing away some of the tension and emotion from the morning. When she came out, the first thing she noticed was the smell. Frying onions...soy sauce...green peppers...She heard sizzling from the kitchen as she crossed the living room. He looked at her from the stove and gave her a small smile. "You haven't had lunch. I figured you would be hungry. You have a lot to work with in the refrigerator."

She smiled at him. "That's what refrigerators are for, Bobby. Food."

The corner of his mouth quirked. "I haven't had much...initiative to stock my cupboards."

"I noticed. Fast food on the fly, little sleep and too much stress is bad for you. We need to get you straightened out; you're a heart attack waiting to happen."

"I...I suppose," he muttered, stirring the vegetables in the frying pan in front of him.

She stepped up to his side. "What are you making?"

"Stir fry."

"If it tastes as good as it smells, you can cook for me any time."

He looked at her for a moment. "Whenever you want, Eames. I don't mind cooking."

"A man who can manage more than peanut butter and jelly and hot dogs. I'm duly impressed."

He turned back to the stove, checking the rice on the back burner. "Don't be," he murmured.

"What do you mean by that?"

"I didn't learn to cook for fun. If I didn't want to live on ham sandwiches and cold cereal, I had to learn to cook. Besides, my mother needed to eat right, and Frank still can't boil water. So it fell into my lap. But it's not always a plus on the dating scene."

"When was the last time you had a date?" she asked, suddenly curious.

He raised an eyebrow. She had never showed an interest in his love life before, beyond an occasional offhand comment or teasing remark. "Does it matter?"

"No, I guess not. I was just wondering."

"Why?"

She gave it some thought. "Because I care."

"About my love life?"

"About your life, period."

He turned his attention back to the stove, and lost himself in thought for a few minutes. "It's been about a year, maybe a little longer," he finally replied. "After my mother was diagnosed...I...I didn't have time for anything else. And I didn't have...the, uh, the desire."

"And now?"

"And now what?"

"Got your desire back?"

He looked at her, confused. He didn't understand what she was getting at. "Uh...no. Not yet."

She didn't debate him; she could tell that much was true. A lot of his passion and his energy had been missing since his mother's diagnosis, and he had been unpredictable. But he was finally regaining his stability, his bearings. His desire would return in time, along with his energy and his enthusiasm for life in general. Recalling the early years of their partnership, she found herself missing that energy, as exhausting as it had always been for her to try keeping up with him. Then, she'd silently wished he would slow the hell down. Now, she found herself hoping it would not be long in returning.

Stepping up to his side, she leaned over the pan to inhale the aroma of their lunch, resting a hand comfortably at the small of his back. "How much longer do I have to wait?"

"Ten minutes," he promised.

With a smile she said, "I'll set the table."

After lunch, she sat back and looked at him. "You can seriously cook me dinner any time, Bobby. That was excellent."

He looked uncomfortable at the compliment, but the small smile that touched his mouth told her he was pleased that she liked it. "Stir fry is easy to make," he insisted. "The trick is not to leave it unattended. The 'stir' part is very important."

In spite of her objections, he cleaned up and washed the dishes, which took all of ten minutes. Then he told her that he was going to head for home. She couldn't explain the disappointment she felt, but she also was not surprised. She hadn't expected him to stay forever. "You don't have to leave," she insisted.

"Yes, I do. I have taken advantage of you enough, Eames. And I need some time alone now. The most difficult part is behind me, and I handled it well, thanks to you."

"Do you really think that was more difficult than what's to come?"

He gave it some thought. "I guess I'll find out."

He gathered his clothes and shaving supplies, and he headed for the door. She walked with him. "How often have I said thank you over the past couple of days?" he murmured. "It sounds trite, but I really mean it. I am grateful for everything you did to help me. I-I'll call you later."

She nodded. "You'd better. Don't make me come looking for you."

He smiled, amused by the fact that he had no doubt she would. Leaning over, he softly kissed her cheek as his thumb lightly stroked her arm. Then he turned, stepped off the porch and walked to his car. She watched him leave, then turned and went into her now-lonely house.

By lunchtime the next day, she'd had enough of her lonely house, so she called Goren and asked if he minded her dropping by for a little while if she brought lunch. He didn't mind and they agreed on pizza for lunch.

An hour later, she was sitting on his couch, her pizza sitting on the coffee table. She noticed the two photo albums sitting on the coffee table and she pointed at them. "Do you mind, Bobby?"

He shook his head. "Go ahead. I'll be back in a minute."

She watched him leave the room, heading into the kitchen. She pulled one of the familiar albums into her lap. She remembered them from her visit to Carmel Ridge. Slowly leafing through it, she looked at the pictures with a soft smile. He had been an adorable little boy, and so had his brother. Frances had not been exaggerating when she told her that he would have beautiful children.

She stopped suddenly and she felt her body turn cold. She found a picture that was very familiar...the dress...the pose...it was the same picture from Mark Ford Brady's 1960s album. "Bambi..." She gasped. "Bambi" was Frances Goren.

He returned with a cup of coffee for her and a drink for himself, handing her the coffee. He noticed her tension and the pale cast to her face. "What's wrong?"

She closed the album, accepted the coffee and said, "I'd like to discuss something with you."

Lowering himself to the couch beside her, he nodded. "All right. What do you want to discuss?"

"Mark Ford Brady."

"B-Brady? Why? He's dead, Eames. Can't we just leave him there?"

"No. There are one or two things that have been bothering me, and I'd like to clear them up."

"Does it really matter now?"

"It does to me."

"Why? Why now?"

"Because I need to know. He took a particular interest in you, and that has always bothered me. Can you explain that to me?"

Of course he could, but he saw no way that the information he had to offer would not destroy them. So he shrugged. "His was a warped and twisted mind, Eames."

"That's your specialty, partner. Warped and twisted minds fascinate you. Come on, Bobby. Talk to me."

_Talk to me... _If he did it would be the end of their friendship, their partnership, everything. That was not a risk he was willing to take. Slowly, he got up from the couch and began to pace. On his fourth circuit, he turned to find her standing in his path; he almost ran her over. "Eames..."

It was time to take a harder line with him. "I'm not going to be shut out any more, dammit. I am tired of having to jump through hoops to get the simplest answer from you."

She planted her hands in the center of his chest and pushed him into the wall. He grunted, and he understood what she was trying to do. He studied her face, close to his, eyes blazing, hair slipped down over one eye. His eyes continued down to look at her hands, still planted firmly in the center of his chest, pressing him against the wall. "I-I'm not trying to be difficult," he said softly.

"I know that. You never have to try. It comes naturally to you."

He leaned his head back and looked over her head, at the far wall. "I'm...protecting..."

"If you say you're protecting me, you'd better be prepared for the response."

He shook his head. "Not you. Myself. _Us_."

"Us? What do you mean by that?"

He wrapped his hands around her wrists and gently moved her from in front of him. "From...a _real_ monster..."

It was all he intended to say. In silence, he carefully moved away from her. He sat down on the couch, bracing his arms on his knees. He shook his head when she sat beside him. "Eames..."

"Tell me what you're talking about. Please."

"Dammit," he growled. "You don't understand! If I tell you...it's over, Eames."

"What is over?"

"Everything! Our partnership, our friendship..."

"Bullshit! Stop pushing me away! There is nothing you can tell me that would make me abandon you, Bobby. What do I have to do to get that through to you?"

"Nothing? Are you so certain?"

"Absolutely."

"Not even..." he stopped, nearly choking on the words. He closed his eyes. "Suppose I told you that I'm not the man you think I am?"

"I would ask you what you're talking about. After more than 6 years as your partner, I think I know you pretty well."

He opened his eyes again, studying her. "I thought I knew myself, too. Until...the day before my mother died...He knew, Eames. Damn him, he knew."

She frowned, confused. "Knew what?"

"The woman he called Bambi...Remember?"

She nodded, certain now that he knew what she had just figured out. "Yes. Bambi was your mother."

His eyes widened in horror as he stared at her. "H-How did you know?"

"I wondered why you took such an interest in that particular picture, and why Brady took such an interest in you." She pulled the album back into her lap and opened it, pointing at the picture in question. "I recognized it. Then, I just...connected the dots."

He didn't smile at her use of his own phrase. He was too distraught. His entire future, the rest of his life, hinged on this one conversation and her reaction to it. If she had any idea...and she was still there, still talking to him in spite of the sins that resulted in his conception...maybe there was a small chance... "He-he had an ongoing affair with her..." He closed his eyes again."When he went into the service, she didn't wait for him. Sh-she married another man, had a child with him. But that didn't keep her from..." He swallowed hard. "She conceived a second child, and she went to her grave never knowing who his father was...her husband, or her lover."

Eames remained silent and he leaned back, opening his eyes to look at the ceiling, not wanting to see what was in her face. He ran his fingers through his hair and laughed bitterly. "She sure could pick 'em, Eames. A womanizing alcoholic addicted to gambling and a serial rapist and killer. What a fucking choice..."

Eames watched him evade her, and she finally understood. What a horrible deathbed revelation to make. She found herself bitter and angry, but not at him...at the woman who had tormented him all his life when he gave her only love. Even in death, she couldn't leave him in peace. And now...he expected her to retreat, to go the way of everyone else who had ever mattered in his life. He expected her to leave. He knew the pain of abandonment only too well. And she wasn't certain what she could do to reassure him.

Tentatively, she reached out to him, fingering the gray hair that curled at his temple in front of his ear. He shuddered at her touch. Leaning closer, she said softly, "You were wrong about me, Bobby. You thought I'd leave if I knew, and I won't. You said you could never ask me to accept the burden of being close to you. I am telling you that is something you will never have to ask, because it's something I am willing to do." She kissed his temple. "I don't need your permission to love you, dammit, and I refuse to ask for it. Just stop being a stubborn ass and accept what I have to offer."

He turned his head to look at her. "And what is that, Eames? What do you have to offer?"

She met his eyes and accepted the challenge she saw there. What she had to offer was something he had been searching for his whole life: someone who would love him unconditionally, accept him in spite of his flaws and remain by his side, steadfast, asking for nothing in return except his love. Words, however, were meaningless to him. He'd heard the words, hollow and meaningless, all his life. He needed more than that. His mother, his life's biggest responsibility, was gone. It was time for him to start living for himself, though he wasn't quite certain how to do that after so many years of living for his mother and for his job. So he was embarking on a journey of discovery, one she was willing to take with him.

Leaning closer, she gently brushed her lips over his. It was all the prompting he needed. Turning fully toward her, he slid his hand into her hair, drawing her closer as his mouth claimed hers. Passion rose to meet passion, crashing over them both and driving them deeper into each other's arms. They had set themselves on a path from which there was no turning, lost in the onslaught of emotion that engulfed them both.

As reason returned, she nestled against him, resting on top of his body on the couch. Her fingers gently stroked his side and he let out a heavy breath. "That...might have been more comfortable in the bed," he whispered.

"Maybe, but I have no complaints. Do you?"

"Uh, no...no complaints."

"Regrets?"

That was a more difficult question to answer. "Um...do you?"

"I asked first."

Quietly, he considered his answer, taking stock of what they'd done and how he felt about it. "No," he finally answered. "No regrets."

With a smile, she settled her head on his chest. "Me, neither."

Holding her, he had just started to doze when she lifted her head. He opened his eyes to look at her as she asked, "What do you think about giving it a try?"

Confused, he frowned. "Giving what a try?"

She smiled. "The bed."

_fin._


End file.
